The Monks At The Ferry

: Folk-lore And Legends: German

From time immemorial a ferry has existed from Andernach to the

opposite side of the Rhine. Formerly it was more in use than at

present, there being then a greater intercourse between the two shores

of the river, much of which might be traced to the Convent of St.

Thomas, once the most important and flourishing nunnery on the river.



Close by this ferry, on the margin of the Rhine, but elevated somewhat

abo
e the level of the water, stands a long, roofless, ruinous

building, the remains of the castle of Friedrichstein, better known,

however, to the peasantry, and to all passengers on the river, as the

Devil's House. How it came by this suspicious appellative there are

many traditions to explain. Some say that the Prince of Neuwied, who

erected it, so ground down his subjects for its construction, that

they unanimously gave it that name. Others derive its popular

sobriquet from the godless revelries of the same prince within its

walls, and the wild deeds of his companions in wickedness; while a

third class of local historians insist upon it that the ruin takes

its name from the congregation of fiendish shapes which resort there

on special occasions, and the riot and rout which they create in the

roofless chambers, reeking vaults, and crumbling corridors of the

desolate edifice. It is to this ruin, and of the adjacent ferry, that

the following legend belongs.



It was in the time when the celebrated Convent of St. Thomas over

Andernach existed in its pristine magnificence, that late on an

autumnal night the ferryman from that city to the Devil's House on the

other side of the river, who lived on the edge of the bank below the

ruins of the ancient palace of the kings of Austrasia, was accosted by

a stranger, who desired to be put across just as the man was about to

haul up his boat for the day. The stranger seemed to be a monk, for he

was closely cowled, and gowned from head to foot in the long, dark,

flowing garb of some ascetic order.



"Hilloa! ferry," he shouted aloud as he approached the shore of the

river, "hilloa!"



"Here, ahoy! here, most reverend father!" answered the poor ferryman.

"What would ye have with me?"



"I would that you ferry me across the Rhine to yonder shore of the

river," replied the monk. "I come from the Convent of St. Thomas, and

I go afar on a weighty mission. Now, be ye quick, my good friend, and

run me over."



"Most willingly, reverend father," said the ferryman. "Most

willingly. Step into my boat, and I'll put you across the current in a

twinkling."



The dark-looking monk entered the boat, and the ferryman shoved off

from the bank. They soon reached the opposite shore. The ferryman,

however, had scarce time to give his fare a good-evening ere he

disappeared from his sight, in the direction of the Devil's House.

Pondering a little on this strange circumstance, and inwardly thinking

that the dark monk might as well have paid him his fare, or, at least,

bade him good-night before he took such unceremonious leave, he rowed

slowly back across the stream to his abode at Andernach.



"Hilloa! ferry," once more resounded from the margin of the river as

he approached, "hilloa!"



"Here, ahoy!" responded the ferryman, but with some strange sensation

of fear. "What would ye?"



He rowed to the shore, but he could see no one for a while, for it was

now dark. As he neared the landing-place, however, he became aware of

the presence of two monks, garbed exactly like his late passenger,

standing together, concealed by the shadow of the massive ruins.



"Here! here!" they cried.



"We would ye would ferry us over to yonder shore of the river," said

the foremost of the twain. "We go afar on a weighty errand from the

Convent of St. Thomas, and we must onwards this night. So be up

quick, friend, and run us over soon."



"Step in, then," said the ferryman, not over courteously, for he

remembered the trick played on him by their predecessor.



They entered the boat, and the ferryman put off. Just as the prow of

the boat touched the opposite bank of the river, both sprang ashore,

and disappeared at once from his view, like him who had gone before

them.



"Ah!" said the ferryman, "if they call that doing good, or acting

honestly, to cheat a hard-working poor fellow out of the reward of his

labour, I do not know what bad means, or what it is to act knavishly."



He waited a little while to see if they would return to pay him, but

finding that they failed to do so, he put across once more to his home

at Andernach.



"Hilloa! ferry," again hailed a voice from the shore to which he was

making, "hilloa!"



The ferryman made no reply to this suspicious hail, but pushed off his

boat from the landing-place, fully resolved in his own mind to have

nothing to do with any more such black cattle that night.



"Hilloa! ferry," was again repeated in a sterner voice. "Art dead or

asleep?"



"Here, ahoy!" cried the ferryman. "What would ye?"



He had thought of passing downwards to the other extremity of the

town, and there mooring his barque below the place she usually lay in,

lest any other monks might feel disposed to make him their slave

without offering any recompense. He had, however, scarcely entertained

the idea, when three black-robed men, clothed as the former, in long,

flowing garments, but more closely cowled, if possible, than they,

stood on the very edge of the stream, and beckoned him to them. It was

in vain for him to try to evade them, and as if to render any effort

to that effect more nugatory, the moon broke forth from the thick

clouds, and lit up the scene all around with a radiance like day.



"Step in, holy fathers! step in! quick!" said he, in a gruff voice,

after they had told him the same tale in the very same words as the

three others had used who had passed previously.



They entered the boat, and again the ferryman pushed off. They had

reached the centre of the stream, when he bethought him that it was

then a good time to talk of his fee, and he resolved to have it, if

possible, ere they could escape him.



"But what do you mean to give me for my trouble, holy fathers?" he

inquired. "Nothing for nothing, ye know."



"We shall give you all that we have to bestow," replied one of the

monks. "Won't that suffice?"



"What is that?" asked the ferryman.



"Nothing," said the monk who had answered him first.



"But our blessing," interposed the second monk.



"Blessing! bah! That won't do. I can't eat blessings!" responded the

grumbling ferryman.



"Heaven will pay you," said the third monk.



"That won't do either," answered the enraged ferryman. "I'll put back

again to Andernach!"



"Be it so," said the monks.



The ferryman put about the head of his boat, and began to row back

towards Andernach, as he had threatened. He had, however, scarcely

made three strokes of his oars, when a high wind sprang up and the

waters began to rise and rage and foam, like the billows of a

storm-vexed sea. Soon a hurricane of the most fearful kind followed,

and swept over the chafing face of the stream. In his forty years'

experience of the river, the ferryman had never before beheld such a

tempest--so dreadful and so sudden. He gave himself up for lost, threw

down his oars, and flung himself on his knees, praying to Heaven for

mercy. At that moment two of the dark-robed monks seized the oars

which he had abandoned, while the third wrenched one of the thwarts of

the boat from its place in the centre. All three then began to

belabour the wretched man with all their might and main, until at

length he lay senseless and without motion at the bottom of the boat.

The barque, which was now veered about, bore them rapidly towards

their original destination. The only words that passed on the occasion

were an exclamation of the first monk who struck the ferryman down.



"Steer your boat aright, friend," he cried, "if you value your life,

and leave off your prating. What have you to do with Heaven, or Heaven

with you?"



When the poor ferryman recovered his senses, day had long dawned, and

he was lying alone at the bottom of his boat. He found that he had

drifted below Hammerstein, close to the shore of the right bank of the

river. He could discover no trace of his companions. With much

difficulty he rowed up the river, and reached the shore.



He learned afterwards from a gossiping neighbour, that, as the man

returned from Neuwied late that night, or rather early the next

morning, he met, just emerging from the Devil's House, a large black

chariot running on three huge wheels, drawn by four horses without

heads. In that vehicle he saw six monks seated vis-a-vis, apparently

enjoying their morning ride. The driver, a curious-looking carl, with

a singularly long nose, took, he said, the road along the edge of the

river, and continued lashing his three coal-black, headless steeds at

a tremendous rate, until a sharp turn hid them from the man's view.



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